Филиппа Карр - The pool of St Branok

I was in a quandary.

I fell back on the excuse. "I need time to think."

He understood perfectly. He always would.

"We'll wait," he said. "Let things ride for a while and then I think you will come to see, Angelet, that we have much to offer each other."

We rode thoughtfully home.

I sensed my mother's disappointment because she had been expecting an announcement.

The very next day I said to Timothy: "I think we should speak to Fanny. There was something in the papers about the murder. Her stepfather is going on trial. The result is a foregone conclusion. I know she can't read, but someone might say something to her."

So we decided to tell her ... together.

My mother and Janet knew what we intended and promised to make sure that we were not interrupted.

"We want to speak to you, Fanny," I said seriously.

She looked from one of us to the other and I saw panic in her eyes. "You're going to send me away," she said.

"We'll never do that," said Timothy. "This is your home for as long as you want it to be."

"Then what is it?" she asked.

"Your mother," I told her. "She's ... dead."

She stared at us. "When?" she said. " 'E done it. It was 'im, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I told her.

Her face was contorted with grief. I went to her and put my arms round her.

"I'll kill Mm," she cried. "I will, I'll kill 'im."

"There will be no need for that, Fanny. The law will do it."

She smiled. "Then they've got 'im."

"They've got him," I repeated.

"I wasn't there," she murmured. "If I had of been ..."

I held her head against me. "No, Fanny. It was as well you weren't there. She should have come to us."

"She would stay with 'im."

"It was what she wanted."

"She shouldn't 'ave."

"People have to make their own choices in life. She knew this could happen and she stayed with him."

Timothy had moved closer to us. He put his arms round us both.

"It'll be all right, Fanny," he said. "You'll be here. Ours ... completely now."

"You won't want me."

"Oh yes we shall."

"You got yer own ... both of you."

"We can always do with more," I told her. "We're greedy, Fanny, and we want you."

"Do you reely?"

"We do indeed," said Timothy fervently. "We want you to stay with us ... we want that very much."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because we love you," I said.

"Gam," she said. "Nobody never said that to me before."

"We're saying it now."

Then suddenly she was crying—the first tears I had ever seen her shed. She clung to me ... and then she reached out and included Timothy in the embrace.

At length she withdrew herself and dabbed angrily at her face. "Look at me. You'll think I'm daft."

"We think you are a very nice girl," said Timothy.

Then I could see the tears coming again.

"It's all right, Fanny," I said. "We all cry sometimes, you know. They say it's good for you."

She just lay against me while the tears rolled down her cheeks. I wiped them gently away.

"I love her," she said. "She was good to me. She was my mum."

"I know."

"I 'ate 'im. I always 'ated 'im. Why did she 'ave to? My dad was all right, he was."

"Life is like that sometimes," I said. "We have to take it and make what we can of it."

"I like it 'ere," she said. "I never thought you'd keep me. You're funny, you two. I ought to be scrubbing floors or something. I wouldn't mind. But I like being with the little 'uns. I like that Rebecca. She going to live here?"

Timothy pressed my hand.

"No, we live in London," I said. "We're just visiting."

"But you will live here, won't you? The two of you ..."

She was almost pleading.

"You together ... both of you. You're all right. I like you ... better even than Mrs. Frances. She's some sort of angel, ain't she ... but you two ... well you're just ... people. That's what I like, see? I want to be with you both ... and the children ... and that little Rebecca."

"It may well turn out that way," said Timothy, looking at me.

She said slowly: "I'll never see me Mum again. I can't believe it."

"It is terribly sad," I said. "If only she had come away ..."

"Will they hang him?" she asked.

"It seems likely."

"I'm glad of that," she said vehemently. "It makes me feel a lot better. He won't be able to 'urt nobody no more."

Then suddenly she turned to us and hugged us, first me and then Timothy.

He said: "We'll work it out, Fanny. Don't worry. I think we are all going to be very happy together."

He took her hand and then mine; he held them in his own.

I felt then that, in time, I should be here with them both.

We were at breakfast next morning—my mother, Timothy, Janet and I. My mother had been glancing through the morning papers.

"Here is something that will interest you," she said. "This is a real scandal sheet. It's about Benedict Lansdon. It could mean that he is getting on so well in Manorleigh that he has got some people worried. It is scandalous the way they are allowed to print such things."

"What do they say about him?"

She took up the paper and read: " 'Benedict Lansdon, charismatic candidate for Manorleigh, is creating quite an impression. It seems he is leaping ahead of his rivals. He is indefatigable ... here, there and everywhere dispensing charm in exchange for the promise of votes. It is prophesied that for the first time in many, many years the seat will change hands. Benedict Lansdon has had a spectacular career before taking up politics. He is a golden millionaire—one of the few who struck lucky in Australia. Benedict's luck came to him through his marriage which brought him the mine containing rich veins of gold. Mrs. Elizabeth Lansdon appears at all functions with her husband, but who is the elegant third? I can tell you. It is Mrs. Grace Hume, daughter-in-law of Matthew Hume, Cabinet Minister in the last Tory administration. Mrs. Grace is a staunch supporter of the party in opposition to her father-in-law. Rather a storm in the family teacup? Perhaps, but Mrs. Grace gives her fervent loyalty to candidate Benedict. It is Mrs. Grace who speaks to the press. Mrs. Elizabeth's lips are sealed. Why does she appear with the sad look on her face? Is she worried about her husband's chances with the Manorleigh voters? That seems to be rather unnecessary as things are going. Or perhaps is it because the elegant and ardent supporter of her husband should be such an intimate member of the household?' "

I felt myself growing more and more angry as my mother read on.

"What a horrible suggestion!" she said, laying down the paper. "Grace is only trying to help Lizzie. Poor Lizzie, what must she think?"

"I wonder what Ben thinks about it," I said.

"Oh, he'd shrug it off. But it is very hurtful to Lizzie and Grace."

"I always thought," said Janet, "from what I have heard of Benedict Lansdon that he must be a very attractive man."

"Did you know he is some sort of distant relation of ours?" asked my mother. "You've met Amaryllis and Peter. Well, Benedict is Peter's grandson. It was a love affair before his marriage. Apparently Peter always looked after the family."

Janet looked disapproving.

"Yes," went on my mother. "It was irregular. Somehow people forgive Peter his indiscretions, don't they, Angelet?"

I nodded.

"And he has done so much for the Mission. They wouldn't have been half as successful there without him. Their activities could not have been so widespread. I'd like to know what Peter thinks of these paragraphs."

"So you think they will affect Ben's chances of getting the seat?" I asked.

Timothy said: "No. I shouldn't think so for a moment. There is a good deal of this sort of thing going on at election time. I think people don't take too much notice of it."